"Thank you, Mr. Carleton," she said, when she had reached her own door; (he would not go in) "I have had a very nice time!"
He smiled.
"Good night," said he. "Tell your grandfather I will come to- morrow to see him about some business."
Fleda ran gaily into the kitchen. Only Cynthia was there.
"Where is grandpa, Cynthy?"
"He went off into his room a half an hour ago. I believe he's layin' down. He ain't right well, I s'pect. What's made you so late?"
"O, they kept me," said Fleda. Her gayety suddenly sobered, she took off her bonnet and coat, and throwing them down in the kitchen, stole softly along the passage to her grandfather's room. She stopped a minute at the door, and held her breath to see if she could hear any movement which might tell her he was not asleep. It was all still, and pulling the iron latch with her gentlest hand, Fleda went on tiptoe into the room. He was lying on the bed, but awake, for she had made no noise, and the blue eyes opened and looked upon her as she came near.
"Are you not well, dear grandpa?" said the little girl.
Nothing made of flesh and blood ever spoke words of more spirit-like sweetness, not the beauty of a fine organ, but such as the sweetness of angel-speech might be; a whisper of love and tenderness that was hushed by its own intensity. He did not answer, or did not notice her first question; she repeated it.
"Don't you feel well?"